Some Kind of Wonderful

by Sarah Morgan

  “It wouldn’t matter whether you and I were over and done or not. I would never touch Mel.” He pulled up outside Castaway Cottage and watched for a moment as the surf crashed over the rocks that guarded the peaceful curve of Shell Bay.

  It was the prettiest part of the island, away from the tourist spots and all the favorite meeting places for the islanders. Here the sky merged into the sea and the only sound was the rush of the waves and the call of the gulls. The only place he’d rather be was up in the air looking down on it.

  His moment of quiet contemplation was disturbed by a few choice words from the seat next to him.

  “Holy crap, is that what I think it is?”

  He turned his head to see what had shaken her out of her mood of calm indifference and saw the large blue earthenware pot placed in the center of her front porch.

  “Looks like a casserole.”

  “I can see that,” she muttered, “but what is it doing on my porch?”

  Zach studied it in silence, absorbing the implications. Knowing exactly what a casserole signified among the islanders, he stirred. “Unless you ordered takeout, I’d say someone thinks you’re in deep trouble.”

  BRITTANY SLID FROM the car and approached the casserole as if it were a dangerous device that might explode in her face.

  Seriously, after everything she’d been through so far that morning, now this?

  Everywhere she went she was confronting sympathy and pity and it made her squirm.

  She could imagine the islanders talking behind closed doors, watching her as she walked around the island, waiting for her to fall apart.

  They’d probably called a town meeting to discuss how they were going to support her.

  She heard the car door slam and the solid crunch of Zach’s footsteps on the path as he approached.

  Why couldn’t he have just driven away?

  She’d wanted him to drop her off and leave so she could stop this insane happy act she was putting on, first with the islanders and now Zach. She felt drained. Keeping up the pretense of indifference was exhausting and she wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t overdoing it with her singsong voice and bright smile. She felt like a circus performer trying to get a laugh from a crowd of kids who didn’t want to be there.

  All she really wanted to do was kick something. Hard. Starting with Zach. And the longer he hung around, the greater the chances of it happening.

  Instead, she studied the large pot with dismay. “I’ve never seen a casserole that size. It would feed a family of twenty. If I’d been inside the house and opened the door I would have fallen over it and broken my other wrist.”

  “Any idea who left it there?”

  “No, but it’s someone who has no idea how impossible it is to lift a heavy casserole dish when you only have one working wrist.” She rubbed her forehead with the fingertips of her good hand. “I know people mean well and I’m grateful, really I am, but—” She was an object of pity and she hated that. “How am I meant to get it inside? Drag it? Hell, Zach. I’ve been back less than twenty-four hours and already I’m ready to leave.”

  “It’s island life.” His tone was neutral. “Someone out there figured it was going to be hard for you to cook with one hand. It was intended as a kind gesture.”

  Brittany stared at it miserably. Yes, it was kind but it was also a whole lot of other things. On Puffin Island, a casserole wasn’t just a meal, it was a symbol of solidarity, support and sympathy provided in moments of crisis.

  She knew it.

  He knew it.

  She wondered if the casserole was in sympathy for the broken wrist or the return of Zachary Flynn.

  He lifted the lid and sniffed. “Beef, I think. Smells good.”

  “That’s not the point and you’re not funny.”

  “I wasn’t being funny, I was being practical. Want me to heat it up for you? Chances are that I’m the reason you’ve been given this delicious-looking meal, so the least I can do is help.”

  She didn’t want him heating it up. Enough of her was already heated up just by seeing him.

  There was something ironic about being offered help by the man who, in all probability, was the reason for the casserole in the first place.

  If there was one thing she hated more than being pitied by the locals, it was the idea that Zach might think she was still bleeding inside.

  “I can manage.”

  “Yeah? That’s a lot of casserole for one person.” His eyes gleamed. “Even a person in need of serious sympathy.”

  “You think the volume is in direct relation to the degree of misery I’m supposed to be feeling? Extreme comfort eating?”

  “I don’t know, but you can’t eat this by yourself. You’ll need to freeze some of it and that won’t be easy with your wrist in a cast.” Without waiting for her response, he took the key from her hand. The brush of his fingers sent a jolt of electricity running through her and she snatched her hand back.

  There was a brief question in his eyes and then he turned away, his handsome face inscrutable. “I’ll carry this inside for you.”

  Brittany tried to drag air into lungs that had forgotten how to work.

  Despite her efforts not to, she must have made a sound because she saw him freeze, hesitate and turn fractionally, as if he wasn’t sure whether or not to look at her.

  For a brief moment the sun hit his profile, spotlighting features that were almost absurdly masculine. If he’d been so inclined he could have had a career modeling rugged outdoor menswear. He would have been the kind of model staring unsmiling from the flanks of Mount Everest, wearing arctic clothing and an inch of stubble on his strong jaw. His face was near perfect and at first glance his body was, too.

  But she knew that underneath the black jeans and the shirt that molded lovingly to hard muscle, he bore scars, each one of them a brutal reminder of a life no child should have to live.

  Seeing those scars had hurt her heart.

  Despite her parents’ divorce, her own childhood had been happy. It had appalled her to discover the reality of his, and offended her sense of justice.

  She’d wanted to give him everything he’d never had. She’d wanted to give him the love she knew he deserved, believed he needed and thought he wanted, and then been confused and hurt when he’d rejected her sympathetic attempts to encourage him to talk through his experiences.

  Zachary Flynn talked about nothing.

  Revealed nothing.

  Staring at his retreating shoulders, a sick feeling churned her stomach. He walked with the lethal grace of a predator, unusually light on his feet for such a powerfully built man. In all the years she’d known him, she’d rarely seen him smile. He’d ranged from inscrutable to brooding, his mood on occasion bordering on the dark. There were people on the island who gave him a wide berth, but no matter how black his mood, Brittany had never felt threatened. Despite the violence that had been shown to him, or perhaps because of it, she’d never seen him display those tendencies towards anyone else.

  On the contrary, she’d seen him behave with exceptional gentleness towards anything weaker or more vulnerable.

  Their relationship had been the most intense physical experience of her life. She would occasionally pretend she was just seeing it through teenage eyes but she knew that wasn’t true. The truth was that no relationship since had come close to evoking the feelings she’d felt with Zach, and acknowledging that brought her close to despair.

  She wished it had.

  She didn’t want to feel this way.

  And she certainly didn’t want his help with the casserole. What she really wanted to do was push his head inside and drown him in it.

  Ignoring the little voice that told her she should just black his eye and tell him to get the hell out of her life, Brittany was about to follow him inside when she saw the note that had been left under the casserole.

  She picked it up and followed him into the house, relieved to discover that her pulse rate and breathing were
almost back to normal. As a teenager she’d spent half her time in a state of hyperventilation whenever he was around so it was nice to know she’d taken a few forward steps. “There’s a note, but no signature.”

  He placed the casserole on the counter without looking at her. “What does it say?”

  “‘Sorry for your troubles.’” To compensate for her embarrassing slip, she tried to make a joke of it. “Which troubles? My wrist or my ex-husband?”

  His brief glance told her he knew exactly what his touch had done to her. “I guess you can take it any way you want to take it. Doesn’t matter. What matters is that if you divide this up into portions, you’ll be fed for the next week.”

  “Unless the casserole is from Mel, in which case it’s poisoned and I’ll be dead by five o’clock.”

  “Why would she want to poison you?”

  “She thinks I’m competition for your affections. I tried telling her there’s nothing about you that interests me, but judging from the layers of lipstick, she didn’t believe me.” She moved around the kitchen, careful to keep her distance, wanting him to leave and not knowing how to engineer it without revealing more than she already had. It wasn’t just the effect he had on her that bothered her. Having him here, in her home, made her think of that night.

  There’d been a storm, which wasn’t unusual for an island often in the line of fire from Mother Nature.

  With black clouds sending a menacing gloom over the sky, Kathleen had taken the last ferry across to the mainland for her theatre trip with Hilda, Agnes and other members of the island’s women’s group.

  Standing on top of the bluff, Brittany had waited for the deep boom of the horn and watched as the ferry had moved into the bay before making the call. Her palms had been clammy, her heart racing the whole time because she knew she was inviting danger into her home.

  Most people locked their doors when they saw Zachary Flynn coming.

  She’d opened hers.

  The moment he’d set one scuffed boot over her threshold she’d known her life would never be the same.

  Shaking off the memory she turned to find him watching her. Those smoldering dark eyes were fixed intently on her face, revealing thoughts and emotions that matched hers.

  “I’m not interested in Mel.” His deep voice had a husky, rough quality that she’d always found fascinating. It was that voice that had urged her over the edge that first time.

  Let go and relax, I know it’s your first time but you don’t have to be shy. I’m going to make it good for you.

  He’d made good on his promise. Over and over again.

  Her face heating with the memory, she turned away. “Wouldn’t bother me either way. That’s your business.”

  “There’s nothing you want to say to me?”

  “What could I possibly want to say to you? Thanks for carrying the casserole. Just leave it there. I can manage.”

  He eyed the dirty dishes in the sink. “Must be hard keeping the place neat with one hand. Need some help?”

  “No, thanks, and I can manage perfectly well with one hand.”

  It wasn’t true, but she wanted him out of the house. Having him there whipped up memories she’d worked hard to suppress. And they were hot, sexy memories, not the miserable ones she would have chosen as a shield to keep him at a distance.

  Instead of seeing the empty bed on their “honeymoon,” she kept seeing him naked, that lean, hard body stretched out next to hers as he’d encouraged her to give him everything he demanded.

  “I’ll be fine. I’m not hungry right now. I had breakfast with Ryan and Emily. Still digesting. I don’t mean to be rude, but I have work to do.” Her laptop sat on the table, providing the perfect excuse. “I need to check my emails and update my archaeology blog. I don’t want to keep you from flying another billionaire to his yacht.”

  He didn’t move, and something about the stillness of his body unnerved her. It was as if he was waiting for something.

  Forcing herself to look at him, she turned her head and her eyes locked with the glittering black of his.

  The first time he’d made love to her he’d insisted she keep her eyes open. He’d wanted to see what she was feeling, he’d told her, he’d wanted to know if he was hurting her or turning her on. Staring into those dark eyes had been just as responsible for her sensual meltdown as the slow thrust of his body. He’d controlled the whole thing, every movement, every touch and kiss. At that moment she’d truly believed there was no force on the planet strong enough to pull them apart. She’d thought they’d be together forever, that he was as much hers as she was his.

  Her wake-up call had been all the more brutal for that delusion.

  It was clear to her now that sexual attraction wasn’t dulled by negative past experience. If so, then her body should have repelled him. Instead she felt inexorably drawn to the dark, dangerous appeal of the man who had broken her heart.

  It took a physical effort not to slide her hand into the silky strands of dark hair that flopped over his forehead. She wanted to pull his head down to hers and lock her mouth to his, wanted to feel the skilled stroke of his tongue as he seduced her mouth with his.

  Instead she curled her fingers into her palms, feeling the heat of his gaze.

  She had no idea how much time passed. No idea whether it was seconds or minutes, but finally he turned and walked to the door.

  Only when she heard it shut behind him did she let her smile slip.

  She flopped onto the chair, groaned and closed her eyes.

  One thing she knew for certain—

  It was going to take more than a casserole to fix her feelings.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ZACH LOUNGED ON the deck, nursing a whiskey. The chair was tilted back, his legs resting on the top of the railing, as he stared at the ocean and listened to the plaintive cry of the seagulls. The water churned and boiled, lashing the rocks at the far side of the bay. The sky was black and angry. It suited his mood perfectly.

  “You’re drinking Jack Daniels, which makes me think you’ve had a hell of a day. Nursing spoiled rich folk?” Philip’s voice came from behind him and Zach turned.

  “I flew a bunch of bankers up to Moosehead Lake. They’re white-water rafting on the Kennebec River, staying up there tonight and I’m flying them back tomorrow. That’s if they don’t drown in the meantime.”

  “You’ll lose money if they drown.”

  “No I won’t. I made them pay in advance.” He swung his legs down. “I’m guessing you don’t want whiskey, but there’s beer in the fridge. Help yourself.”

  Philip did that and joined him. “I heard you saw Brittany.”

  Zach watched as a couple of seagulls swooped low over the bay. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

  “Hard to keep anything a secret around here. Rumor has it the two of you drove off together looking cozy.” Philip pulled on a sweater and Zach frowned.

  “Are you cold? Do you want to go inside?”

  “No. I want to spend some time looking at the ocean, something I don’t do often enough seeing as I live right by it. Don’t fuss. Celia does enough of that.”

  Celia was Philip’s wife and had been for thirty-five years.

  It humbled Zach. He couldn’t imagine the level of trust and connection that came along with spending that length of time with another person. It was something he’d never experienced. And he knew that was his fault. A psychologist might have said it was because his trust had been betrayed at a young age, but Zach couldn’t remember ever trusting anyone. Especially not psychologists.

  “You’re mistaking me with someone else. I don’t care what happens to you.”

  Philip grinned and rested his feet on the splintered railing where Zach’s had been a moment earlier. “That’s right, you’re just a big, tough guy with no feelings. I keep forgetting. My bad. On the other hand you’re out here drinking whiskey, which means you’re not as relaxed as you’re pretending. Want to talk about it?�
��

  “No.”

  “You never do.” Philip took a mouthful of beer. “Bound to unsettle a man, though, seeing his ex-wife. I’ve known Brittany her whole life. She always was a little firecracker.”

  “Is this conversation going somewhere?”

  “Just saying she used to be a hell of a girl.”

  “Your point being?”

  “You haven’t seen her in ten years.”

  “I know when I last saw her.”

  She’d been asleep, her hair trespassing on to his pillow, her lips still curved in the smile he’d put there the night before.

  He hadn’t hung around to see what her face looked like when he’d wiped the smile away. Making women hate him was his special gift.

  “It’s a long time to not see a person. You’ve both changed.” Philip glanced at him. “I should imagine she had plenty to say after all that time. Must have been some reunion.”

  Zach was starting to think he should have sold tickets.

  “Sorry to disappoint everyone, but it was uneventful. The ground didn’t shake and no blood was drawn. Maybe there should have been. If I’d needed medical attention, maybe that would have kept the islanders off my back. The sight of my carcass by the harbor would have made a few people’s day, I’m sure.” Zach wondered why everyone still took such an interest in his life. “Sadly for them, she was civilized. Polite.”

  Philip nursed his beer and stared thoughtfully at the churning ocean. “That bad?”

  “Civilized is bad?”

  “I’d say so. When a woman is polite and civilized, I worry. Celia has a polite smile that has me checking out the exits.”

  Knowing Celia, Zach didn’t argue. “Maybe, but Brittany and I were together for a little over five minutes. In this case it meant she didn’t care enough to be mad.”

  “Oh, she cared. Cared enough to throw it all in, marry you and go wherever you wanted her to go.”

  “And spend a lifetime regretting what she gave up.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Cambridge, Oxford, PhD, Dr. Forrest—you think I could have competed with that?”

  “So you looked her up.”

  Caught, Zach had no choice but to admit it. “Once.” More than once, but that he wasn’t admitting. And he didn’t need to. He had no doubt Philip knew.